


Catharsis

by blueink3



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Whump, post-tab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Not actually a prompt. Just was having a bad day and wanted some hurt/comfort so I wrote this little blurb for the Tumblr.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Not actually a prompt. Just was having a bad day and wanted some hurt/comfort so I wrote this little blurb for the Tumblr.

The knock is sharp and swift - loud enough to draw attention, but not enough to force the issue. 

Only Sherlock knocks like that which is why John is swift to answer the door before Mary wakes from her nap. He tells himself it’s because she’s about to be a new mum and sleep is important, but Sherlock only knocks like that at one particular time (barely knocks at all, really) and John wants this moment to himself. 

The door swings back and the great detective stands there looking anything but. His hair is askew, his coat is muddy and damp, his breath is shallow and his eyes are sunken, purple marring the alabaster skin beneath. 

John raises an eyebrow. “Bad day?” 

But Sherlock merely shrugs, a gesture that looks entirely foreign on those shoulders which have, at any one point, borne the weight of the world.  And only then does he realize that it’s so much worse than that. 

“Christ, what happened?” he murmurs, stepping back and ushering Sherlock into the foyer. 

“Mary?” Sherlock asks, deflecting, and to anyone else it might seem like he’s attempting common courtesy, but John knows better. He sees the way the man visibly swallows and his eyes continually dart to the stairs. The last thing Sherlock needs in this moment is to see the woman who shot a hole through his chest. 

“Asleep,” John replies, already attempting to pull the Belstaff off the taller man’s entirely too thin frame - but then he pauses. “No, we need to get you home.” 

Sherlock spins around so quickly, John nearly topples over. “Don’t want to go home,” he swiftly replies and John hasn’t seen terror like that since the moment of dawning realization that their reunion was not going to be as swift or as easy as Sherlock thought it was going to be. The French accent didn’t help matters. 

“Sherlock - ”

“Please, John. Don’t make me go.” And there’s something in his gaze, something that tells John this has nothing to do with 221B itself but rather with the empty spaces that occupy it. 

“I’m coming with you, you daft git,” he replies affectionately, allowing himself a moment of utter foolishness to reach up and brush one of those damp, wayward curls away. 

Sherlock sucks in a breath. “You are?” 

“’Course.” John turns and unhooks his own coat, before grabbing a pen from the side table. If he’s going to play the part of the dutiful husband until this nightmare is over and his child is safe, he might as well leave a note. That’s what dutiful husbands do, isn’t it? It would make Mycroft proud, anyway. 

That done, he ushers Sherlock through the door and into the mist, before bundling him in a cab with promises of tea and crap telly. 

He tries to stay still, calm his breathing, as Sherlock curls into him, but the man who’s haunted his dreams is currently using him as a pillow and ‘rational’ is not the way his thoughts are going at the moment. This isn’t about him, though. The reminder is seared into his brain as the man beside him begins to shake. 

John holds him tighter. 

“Hey,” he whispers and Sherlock grunts. “It’ll be okay. Whatever it is, it’ll work out.” He says it to himself as much as to Sherlock, because sometimes he’s not sure the ridiculous plan he concocted on a whim and a prayer with Mycroft _will_ see a happy resolution. He tries not to think about it, though, because he will absolutely crack if he considers the alternative. 

“I was too late,” Sherlock says after a moment and it takes John a surprisingly short amount of time to work out what that means. He had been working on a case from the Met - missing child, girl, 8-years-old. Time was against them, but Sherlock didn’t ask for his help and John didn’t press it because they’re each playing a part, though only one of them knows it. 

It broke him to heed Sherlock’s instruction and stay home with Mary. A little piece of him was chipped away with every hour that passed without Sherlock’s call. 

But if he can do this - if he can help piece Sherlock back together, then perhaps his own shattered heart will slowly heal. Bit by bit. 

“Oh love,” he breathes, not caring a whit for the sentiment. It’s been on the tip of his tongue for _ages_. Finally saying it feels like release. Catharsis. 

Sherlock burrows into him further, fingers tangling in the collar of his coat. 

“I was too late, too slow, and she’s gone.” 

John swallows and allows himself to drop a kiss into his hair. Nothing he can say will help the situation, so he holds him tighter. Sherlock sighs against his neck and John allows himself the luxury of another kiss. 

Maybe Sherlock won’t notice. 

Maybe John is lucky and he will. 

They arrive at Baker St. long before either man is ready to let go, but John manages to pull his keys out and get them upstairs with little fuss. He gently shoves Sherlock toward the loo for a hot shower while he puts the kettle on, and by the time Sherlock emerges, John is waiting on the sofa that the detective is only too happy to fling himself upon. 

His body ends up half in John’s lap once more, face pressed into John’s jumper, tea lying forgotten on the table. 

John smiles softly as he cards his fingers through those curls, feeling the puff of Sherlock’s breath against his stomach. The tea goes cold and the crap telly remains unwatched. 

After all, even genius consulting detectives need a bit of a cuddle now and then. 

John Watsons certainly do. 


End file.
